Queries
by madly
Summary: Ugly? Lonely? Worried? We all have questions. Whether we find the answers or not depends greatly on circumstance. Rating may go up.
1. one

What do you do when you are born ugly?

The only real way of knowing is if you were ugly yourself, and even then, the ways of handling it are different for everyone.

Maka Albarn was born ugly.

She isn't the kind of person who would care about appearances, but having a face like hers is no easy task.

She hides the fact that her hair refuses to be styled by pulling it back into simple ponytails.

She hides her fat ankles by stuffing them into heavy boots.

She hides her plain face by keeping it tucked into a book whenever she isn't fighting.

And so she gets by. She is okay.

Even when her roommate makes an offhand remark about her breasts, even when it feels like a bucket of ice water has been upturned over her head, she can just smack him with her book and get over it.

But the cold water creeps down her neck, and her smile is forced, and nobody knows that with every insult, with every jeer, a little bit of her is eaten away.

* * *

Her grip is tight around her partner's handle, the rough steel pressing comfortingly back against her palm.

That's the thing about demon weapons—they can press back.

And she waits. She is no assassin, but she knows to wait. She knows to wait for the kishin soul she is hunting to turn from where it crouches over its meal, to see her standing there with a Death Scythe in her grasp.

She sees a glint of a yellow eye.

Showtime.

"Demon Nevada, the consuming of human souls is forbidden. As representatives of Death Weapon Meister Academy, we will take your soul!" Maka says. Her voice echoes against the walls of the valley.

The kishin below her flips something shiny around in its hand and lunges, swiping at Maka's legs. Maka knows to jump, and she swings a leg back, her heel catching the back of the demon's head.

Nevada somersaults forward and is up on her feet, lunging again. Maka attempts to block the shiny weapon, which glances over her scythe, cutting a slice across her nose.

"_Damn!_" Maka jumps back, her boots skidding across the cobblestones. Nevada stares at her, its head lolling against its chest.

_She's carrying a box-cutter,_ Soul says.

"How do we attack her? She's pretty small, and her weapon is too; it's gonna be hard to block her attacks!"

_Strike from above or below, and her sides. Avoid coming at her from the front. We can do this, _Soul says. _It'll be hard for us to block her attacks, but it'll be damn near impossible for her to block ours._ Maka nods and leaps forward.

She jumps over Nevada's head, ignoring the searing pain that blooms across her shin, blinking through the blood that makes her vision red.

She turns in midair, kicking off of the back wall to give herself more momentum. The world is getting blurry, but she has stayed conscious through far worse! She swings.

She blade meets resistance, like hitting a hard shell. Then, it slides through the demon like butter. Maka skids to a halt and turns to see the demon explode into black ribbons, leaving a glowing red soul behind. Soul flips out of his scythe form, and grabs the egg in his right hand, giving Maka a thumbs-up with his left. He swallows the soul, making the usual gulping noise and relaxed sigh. Maka has to smile.

"Good job out there, Soul."

"Thanks. How many have we collected again?"

"Like you haven't been keeping track."

"Of course. I just like to hear you say it."

"We're nearing three hundred."

"_Yesss!" _Soul throws his fist into the air and pulls it down again, grinning like a crocodile. "_That's _what I like to hear!"

Maka smiles wider. She adjusts her collar, which is soaked in blood.

"Shit," she murmurs. Her head and leg throb.

"I second that. Let's get you to the academy," Soul says. Maka nods, and she thinks that she can feel her brain rattling around inside her skull.

The motorcycle peels away, her leg dripping blood in a red path behind them.

* * *

In the infirmary Maka feels uneasy. She has spent altogether too much time here for it to ever be considered more than a hospice.

The anesthetic Nygus gave her left a numbness that is fading into a dull burn. Maka feels the stitches, and she sighs at the thought of more scars littering her body.

They wouldn't do much to make her uglier.

Maybe if Nevada had shredded her face, she could have an excuse to bandage it up and nobody would have to see it.

Maybe the demon could have cut out her eyes with that box-cutter, and Maka wouldn't have to look at that pasty, skinny creature staring at her in the mirror every morning.

Nygus comes over to give her a bit more anesthetic. Maka lazily rolls her eyes up to look at her. Nygus keeps her face bandaged most of the time. Maka tries to scowl, but her face feels heavy. What anesthetic did Nygus given her?

Why does Nygus bandage her face? Maka had seen Nygus sans-bandages. She is beautiful. Maka doesn't have that luxury, and she doesn't even bandage her face. Why bandage a pretty face like that

It makes no sense

Such pretty

Her

Heavy head

Heavy


	2. two

Two

What do you do when your partner is drifting away?

At what point is the distance too great, and the bonds can never be repaired?

Maka has been getting hurt in battles more often now than ever, and it has not escaped Soul's attention.

Fourteen months and over 280 souls after their fight with the kishin, Maka sits in the living room, her nose bandaged and her leg elevated. Soul brings her a cup of tea. She murmurs a "thank you" without looking up from her book. Soul rolls his eyes and sets down the tea on the bedside table.

"Anything else you want?"

"Mn-mnn."

"I'll take that as a no." Soul makes sure to close the door behind him. In the hall, he slumps back against the wall. His head feels heavy, so het lets it sag between his shoulders. He pretends he can feel his brain sliding forward in his skull.

He returns to the kitchen and empties the kettle. Blair, perched on the counter next to him, licks the back of one of her paws, her eyes unfocused, as if deep in thought.

"What's bothering you, Soul?" she says, causing Soul to flinch a bit at the sudden noise.

"Nothing. Just a lot on my mind." He forces a grin for the obviously unconvinced cat.

"A lot of _whaaaaat?_" she purrs, leaping onto his shoulder as he turns and shuts out the light.

"A lot of shut the hell up," he responds, but he is too tired to put any venom behind it.

"Humph. Well _that_ wasn't very nice!" Blair pouts. Soul walks into his room, and she hops off of his shoulder, landing on the bed. She resumes licking her paws. Soul stares at her for a second. She pauses (_pawses_).

"What?"

"I gotta change."

"Go right ahead." _Lick._

"Changing is kind of a thing I prefer to do without an audience."

"Okay." _Lick._

"Blair."

"Whaaat?"

"_Leave._"

"Oh, you're no fun!" Blair hops off of the bed and sticks her tongue out at him. She struts away, probably headed for Maka's room. Soul sighs.

He pulls off his shirt. Out of habit he glances down, and runs his finger over his scar. After the fight with the kishin, the stitches were removed. Now a pale slash crosses his torso. He doesn't have to think very hard to remember the burning pain that accompanied the body art. He shivers at the memory. He tries to keep his cool in front of Maka, as she probably suffered more from the event than he did. But really, it was terrifying. Seeing his own blood hovering in the air. Smelling it. Feeling his wet clothes heavy against his chest. The world bending and waving before his eyes as he went unconscious.

But the worst part was hearing Maka's screams. Horrible, desperate screams that he hopes he will never have to hear again.

Soul shakes his head, trying to rid his mind of these memories. He is supposed to be stronger than this.

He is supposed to be prepared to die for his meister.

* * *

That night, Soul dreams.

He is in the black and red room. The demon is nowhere to be found, but Soul can't shake the feeling that it might show up at any time.

The song. It sounds so familiar. _Soul, you __**know**__ this. Come on._

But he doesn't. So he lets his head lean back against the red velvet of his chair. His eyelids feel heavy, as if he is even tired in his dream.

And then he hears her.

_"I'm sorry." Maka!_

_ "You should be." Who is that?_

_ "I know. I'm sorry." Sorry for what?_

_ "You're just not good enough." _The voices are coming from behind him. Soul stands and turns around, and he is in an entirely different place.

The room is dark, just like the other one. The floor is heavily polished, and he can see himself reflected in it. High bookshelves line the walls. Books litter the floor. They are ripped apart, the pages scattered around the room, the covers peeling, the spines broken and split. Books are piled in dunes. Soul still hears the voices.

_"You could be so much better."_

_ "I know!"_

_ "You could be prettier. You could be less awkward."_

_ "I know."_

_ "But what _are_ you? Smart?" _There is no response. Soul tiptoes toward the voices, examining the piles of mutilated books around him. He notices that there are no words, only streaks and blobs and stains of ink, like a madman flung black pigment at paper and bound it into books.

_"Brave? You're not _brave_. You aren't even standing up to__** me**__! Pathetic." _Still no response. _"Pathetic, ugly, awkward creature."_ The voice is so familiar, but Soul still can't put his finger on it. He hears Maka sniffling. _She's crying._

Soul starts maneuvering through the dunes more quickly, planning on disemboweling whoever made Maka cry. But, no matter how far he runs, the voices do not sound any closer. _"Maka!" _he shouts.

"_Soul?" _her voice sounds more bewildered than relieved. _"How did you—"_

Soul slips on a scrap of paper and goes flying. Just before his head is about to get real friendly with the polished floor he wakes up.

His legs are tangled in his duvet, and his pillow is a few inches from his head. His body feels sticky and cold. His heart beats a mile a minute. He waits for his breathing to slow.

It is five forty nine.

It is a Sunday.

Somehow Soul doesn't feel like going back to sleep.


	3. three

Three

* * *

What do you do when you feel lonely?

Should you keep everything bottled up? It is so easy to wrap oneself up in a dark blanket of self-pity, to drown in a sea of tears that choke you and make you faint without ever dripping from your eyes.

It is about six in the morning on a Sunday. Although Maka naturally wakes up early due to a freaky internal clock, today she lays in bed, waiting for the feeling to pass. She has felt this before—the doubt sleeps in her stomach at all times, but every so often, it bursts through her ribcage, curling up directly on top of her heart, crushing her into the mattress.

She stares at the ceiling, letting her eyes unfocus as she thinks about nothing at all.

Her breaths slow. She feels like she is shut out of everything. All she wants to do is fall asleep, but the sun is rising, and before she has the chance to think, it is seven o' clock and she is up and making breakfast.

She is surprised to hear the shower running. Soul usually sleeps in until around eleven on weekends. What is _he_ doing up?

In the kitchen, Maka sets about making eggs. In a few minutes Soul joins her, flopping down on a chair, a towel around his shoulders, his white spikes damp.

He asks her if she's feeling better.

She giggles and says she's fine.

* * *

Time passes. Maka gets her stitches removed. The scars aren't as pronounced as she'd feared; just thin indentations down her lag and across the bridge of her nose.

She spends a few minutes each day staring in the mirror and poking at the tissue, even though it feels sore.

She has to wear a baseball hat outside at all times to prevent the skin from damaging. She dislikes this, as it makes her hair greasy.

But oh well.

More time passes.

* * *

Mid-afternoon. Maka lies on the floor of her room, staring at the ceiling. She wonders why the floor seems so much more comfortable than her bed.

Her window is open, letting the warm desert breeze flutter the drapes and wash over her nose. She feels relaxed, like her flesh is melting away from her bones, leaving pristine white ribs jutting into the air.

Not a pretty picture. But then again, not a pretty girl.

Maka's brow becomes tight. She feels the need to go out.

She stands up. Bright fog obscures her vision for a second, and the blood rushing from her head attempts to pull her back down. She takes a deep breath. She enjoys this feeling.

She walks out into the living room. Soul is reading a magazine with a promiscuous cover. He glances up at her.

"What's up?"

"Nothing."

Soul frowns slightly. "You've been acting weird lately, Maka."

Maka feels her face twitch. "Have I."

"Yeah. Is there a problem or something?"

"No."

"Wow, once more with feeling, please? You've got the makings of a great actress."

"Thank you."

"That was my way of calling bullshit." Soul sighs. "I'm your partner, Maka. I know when something's up. So."

Maka shrugs. "I'm fine. Really."

Soul groans. "Whatever."

"I'm going out."

Maka walks through the streets of Death City, no destination in mind. The baseball cap is still perched on her head. At least it keeps people from seeing that faint red line on her face.

She sees couples walking by.

A girl is hugging her boyfriend's arm, their hands meeting between their hips.

Maka glances away. She goes to a café with a happy-looking theme. Several empty tables sit out under umbrellas. Maka sits at one, with no real intentions of ordering anything. If they ask her to leave she will.

(As it happens, nobody asks her to leave. Maybe they are closed.)

Safely in the shade, Maka takes off the cap and smooths back her damp hair. She looks around, watching the people that pass.

A young girl chases another girl down the road, her high voice giggling in a song of happy carelessness. Maka smiles. She remembers singing this song.

She sighs. When did it all go to crap? When did life become more complicated than a game of tag? When did she also have to be prettier, smarter, and better?

She can't remember. She looks up again.

Another happy couple walks by. They are holding hands, their fingers intertwined.

Maka glances down, and clasps her own hands together. Wouldn't they get sweaty? Holding hands doesn't seem very pleasant.

She glances up again. The boy pulls the girl in and kisses her on the mouth. Maka slits her eyes. She doesn't understand the pleasure in kissing.

She has only kissed one other person before: Patty. It was a rather disappointing first kiss, as it was in a game of spin the bottle. That adds another question to the list: since when did all parties have to have kissing games?

Maka stands up abruptly, flipping her hat back onto her head and brushing her bangs out of her eyes. It is time to go home.

* * *

When she arrives, Soul has apparently gone out. Blair cheerfully tells her that Soul went to the store. She does not know what store, or what Soul is buying. Maka rolls her eyes.

"And it is his turn to cook dinner, too…"

"I'm sure he'll be back in time!"

"Ugh, whatever, he's just gonna make packaged ramen or something, anyway. I'm gonna go take a bath."

"Have a good time," Blair grins. Maka warily recalls the Cheshire cat and nods.

In the bathroom, Maka strips. After she carefully folds her clothes and places them on the toilet, she looks at herself in the mirror.

There's the scar. She still isn't used to that.

Her hair is stuck to her forehead (probably from the hat). It doesn't look very appealing.

Her eyes are big and tired-looking, but a pleasant shade of green. Maka smiles slightly. Her eyes are the best part of her.

And then she glances at her breasts. Small, definitely, they barely stand out from the rest of her chest. But they look slightly bigger… maybe? She turns to the side. Maybe. She squeezes them lightly. Nah. She goes through this same routine every day. They never grow. It's always her imagination, or the light in the bathroom, or the crease left by the underwire bra she doesn't need.

Maka sighs and runs the bath, sitting on the cool stone floor and waiting for it to fill.

The rumbling of the water and the hissing of the spout has always sounded like an opera to her.


End file.
